A short story probably sounds easy to write. Because it’s short we love and fear it. Jump on the short story rollercoaster. It’s a short and bumpy ride.
We’re in the lurgy/infection/fevers season. I’ve been nursing a bout of badness and sharing tips for writing when ill. I am the snotty, fatigued gift that keeps on giving. Note: I’m not a doctor. Don’t sue me.
Writing the second novel in a series is both exciting and scary. You learn a lot about yourself. Mainly what a doubting, weird, procrastinator you are. Brace yourselves for ‘second novel problems’.
I am rubbish sometimes at recognising my progress. I am more likely to list all my failures. Who better to teach you all about how to acknowledge your own progress? Yes, I know. Let’s call it therapy.
With age comes wisdom. Believe that and you’ll believe anything. What age has done for me though is shown that striving for perfection is a fruitless and tiring exercise.
Any blogger knows there are times when the blog post ideas aren’t coming. Here I am, with wise advice for my fellow bloggers. Not really but hey, this made a blog post.
A letter to my mum on the first anniversary of her death. The void is wide, the memories help but I miss her more than these words can express. Life without your mum is a strange thing.
I love certain words and phrases. If I could, I’d fill my writing pieces with them but that would be a dull shenanigan, from a numpty cockwomble, who’s blagging this blogging malarkey.